


Listen to the Birds Sing

by itisunreal



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 18:04:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7584469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisunreal/pseuds/itisunreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally it's over. He has a few regrets, but things are looking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to the Birds Sing

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for philinda secret summer for blueberry-absinth over on tumblr.

It was over. Is over. Finally.

Finally they are done, can move on. There are no more battles left for them, they can have the kind of life they thought – he thought would be impossible.

Hydra is gone, buried under as much concrete as he could afford. With the heads crushed, and the remaining limbs being severed, he can breathe. The crisp air stings his nose making his eyes water, but he does it again. And again. A lungful in, holds it, and let's it go in a smooth release.

It feels good to breathe again. To breathe without the fear that the end was waiting around the next corner. That he would leave them or they would leave him.

Rubbing his hands together once, he shoves them into his pockets, and hunches over. There are regrets he harbors though. Things he holds close to the vest, and hates himself for: deeds, and words, and the strain he subjected his team to. Mostly he regrets the paranoia, and the sleepless nights, having the ability to send them on any number of suicide missions without so much as a thank you. He regrets trying to remove his 'right hand' again. Remove her when her skills would have been an asset, when she could have accomplished any number of operations in half the time. But his goal had been to make them irrelevant, to make her irrelevant.

It hadn't worked, and he will berate himself continuously until his life is spent for trying. It had only managed to rile his agents up for the way he'd treated her. He can't bring himself to blame them for that. He'd have done the same in their position. They were a team, a family, and they didn't let the injustices slide. So he changed tactics; sent her off. Some trivial task, far below her pay grade, without explanation. He knew she was well aware off what he was doing. Still she hadn't protested, and he was grateful for it.

He wishes she had now. Wishes that her silence, compliance, had thrown up a red flag for him. She always threw in her thoughts for him, and then went about her duty as always. But she hadn't said a word, just nodded and left.

He'd watched her walk away with a sense of relief, but he'd take it back now. Keep her with him so no one was alone, vulnerable. But he'd been scared, he can admit that freely. She'd already been hurt once, and every time he'd looked at her after there'd been this terrifying pressure constricting his heart.

It'd been the only choice. The only choice he could live with. The one where he could focus, and she was safe, out of harms way, his reach, and theirs. He hadn't planned on losing anyone else. Especially her. Definitely not her.

Now, though, he can see fear didn't justify his decisions, behavior. He should have been able to see the consequences of his actions as he made them, before he made them. Or at least seen them sooner. It was his job after all. But he hadn't, and he hadn't expected to be blindsided by her. He should have, but didn't. Should have known her reaction would be to push back, strike out on her own so she could come home. So they could all go home.

He leans back, fully reclining against the bench he's on, listening to the birds chirp. It is still hard for him to believe that this is real. That there are days like this, and more to look forward to. Days where the sun shines, and is warm, and he can feel that warmth without a lingering coldness clinging to him. Where his people can laugh and live without a constant fear that one of them isn't coming home.

It's hard to believe the world isn't on the verge of ending. The last couple years have been touch and go. It's hard to believe he can breathe this easily, that the rest of his family can. That they are. That three days have passed since he'd willing handed the reins to people better qualified and better equipped than him.

-o0o-

_He waits, impatiently, for the others to join them. He's been trying to get her to sit for the past half hour, and her refusals ring in his ear, his fists clenching in irritation. She can be so... agitating sometimes._

_He'd only agreed to bring her along because he knew she'd fight him on it, knew it'd just be easier to watch her if she was with him. If he was truthful, it made him feel better too. And if the extensive warnings and prep from Simmons hadn't been enough to ward her off than he knew his own ground rules would do nothing to prevent her from chaperoning. She'd nodded along with both of them, playing nice. But apparently he hadn't been specific enough, he'll remember to rectify that in the future._

_He reminds her they are in a safe place, that nothing is going to happen, that she doesn't need to be on constant guard, that they would both feel better if she just sat down, but she doesn't budge. Digs her feet in, hands clasped, and narrows her eyes, his recommendations unwanted, and unwelcome._

_Her attention is stolen from him as the door handle twists; she stiffens and straightens in case of threat._

_This last mission has done a real number on her, he knows, still he wonders when she became so weary of friends._

_Romanoff is the first though the door, unsurprised by his 'sudden return', and truthfully, he about as surprised as she is by that. She'd always been close with Fury, with Melinda. They'd spoken frequently over the years, but recently everything has been quiet. And he wonders. Which of them had stopped calling? Stopped answering? He has a feeling he knows though._

_He hasn't seen her in years, since he died, he thinks, and it feels strange to be back. The four of them had been damn near inseparable for a while, but slowly they'd lost each other. And it's strange because he shouldn't be here, not really, and he knows it, they know it. These people had been there, gone to his funeral._

_Shaking his head, he puts his thoughts away for another time. It's time for this to be over. For good._

_The door swings open the rest of the way revealing Rogers, Stark, Banner, and Wilson. Where Barton is, he doesn't know, but these were more the kinds of expressions he'd been expecting. A little shocked, a little amazed, but mostly unfazed by this turn of events._

_All of them sit, except Natasha; she stands at the back propped against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing out across her features. A mirror of the guard behind him._

_He takes it as his cue to stand, to begin, and sends a rueful smile back. He eases, but notices her eyes look passed him. He files it away, he can't be distracted right now. Leaning against the table top, he has nothing to break the ice with, no words, no jokes, and wonders if this feels just as awkward for them._

_Nervously, he clears he throat, deciding to cut to the chase. “I have a proposition for you.”_

\----

_The discussion is going well, he thinks, better than he thought it would at least, but he stutters mid sentence as Romanoff pushes off the wall. She walks the long way around the group, and he tries to stay focused on what he's saying, but his eyes follow every step until she is out of his sight line. He knows where she'd headed. And something begins to gnaw at him at the concerned looks of the others._

_Guilt. Yes. Yes, definitely guilt. This is his fault after all. The hollowness of dread claws at him. He let this happen, let her push herself too hard, hasn't been helpful enough._

_Looking down, he taps his knuckles against the table. He can't investigate yet. If he does, he'll whisk her away, and never finish this meeting. And he has too, this has to be the end_.

_“There was a vote, consensuses, we'd like to stay on in a more advisory role, assisting from the background, if you'll let us that is.”_

_Eyes flicker past him and back, and there is a stone in his gut, a lump in his throat at the continued silence._

_“Mel-” Romanoff's voice is soft, and he hears a huff, but still doesn't turn. Can't. This is too much. The day before too fresh. “Chair.”_

_But the urgency of the bitten word tells him to suck it up, that her condition is more important than his comfort. And before he can even circle and assess what is happening with his partner, Rogers is out of his seat and rolling it passed him._

_He stops, there are capable people around her, he doesn't have to see, doesn't have to add to the roiling fear in him. He can't stop from jumping to the worse conclusion, recent life has been one bad turn of events after the other, and his gut says this is just another._

_But this can't be happening again, he can't be losing her. He'd just gotten her back, he hadn't even – he hadn't even mustered up the courage to –_

_“Take a breath, Phil.”_

_May's voice is an immediate comfort, calming the multitude of thoughts, but it doesn't help slow the racing in his chest. Forcing his shoulders down, he does as instructed, and breaths. In through his nose, he let's it tumble out in choppy waves; the stoop of his back relaxing, uncurling. He's sure the worry is evident on his face when he looks back._

_She's sitting, shaky, drooping in her seat. Pale and sweaty, and this is the day before all over. He shouldn't have brought her along, but the relief is instantaneous, he nearly feels lightheaded. Romanoff is smirking at him again, eyes gleefully watching this time. Rogers pretends he's looking somewhere else, and Coulson can't drag himself to pay attention to his idol. He concentration is securely fixed._

_Maybe the last mission took a toll on him also. Maybe this life has taken a toll on both of them._

_He doesn't realizing he's moving toward her until his knees hit the floor far harder than they should have._

_“Should we go?”_

_“No.” She shakes her head slowly, and all he can see is her slumped in his arms. “I'm fine.”_

_He doesn't know why his eyes wander to the people around them before finding her again, but he does know he definitely doesn't believe her. Scooching closer, he takes her hand, gently squeezing. “Melinda.”_

_“I'm fine, really. Just woozy.”_

_He's reply is cut off, the door opening again, and he is standing, guarding her already when he registers who it is._

_“Am I late? I stopped for coffee.” Barton wanders in, two drink trays in hand._

_Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Coulson turns his back, and revisits the task at hand. Greetings can wait, he has more pressing issues to attend to. He's nudged by a foot a minute later. Annoyance churning, he turns to rebuff the intruder, and is met with a coffee cup._

_“Phil.”_

_Coulson take the offering, and nods in thanks, it's the least he can offer in return preoccupied as he is. His fingers burn through the cozy, and he sets it on the floor beside him._

_Barton holds out the other cup. “Mellie.”_

_She shakes her head with a frown. “Don't call me that.”_

_“Not coffee, I swear. Learned my lesson last time.”_

_Still she shakes her head, grip tight on the armrests._

_Clint shrugs, placing the cup on the table, and drifts off towards Romanoff._

_“Do we need to go?”_

_She relaxes at his question, fingers loosening their hold, and shakes her head. “No, it's fine. You should finish. I'll be fine.”_

_She sends him off with a half smile, and he's promptly pinned down by Stark._

_“So, how's your cellist?”_

_“My cellist?”_

_“Yes, for when I inventively tell Piper about this reunion. She'll ask.”_

_“I don't think that's necessary.”_

_“I do. If she ever found out I knew and didn't mention it, then it'll be my ass in the hot seat, and I'm not about to play that game, buddy.”_

_“There is no cellist. I didn't see the point of dragging her into this kind of life.” He turns his head at a bark of laughter he knows is Melinda, and smiles. His eyes are back on Stark when the billionaire clears his throat._

_“So, you found something closer to home, that could withstand the onslaught that is Shield. I get it. No judgment here.”_

_Smile fading, he crosses his arms. “No, it's not like that. We're –”_

_“Uh-huh. Well, I'd be expecting a strongly worded letter, Agent."_

_“Just 'Phil' is fine.”_

_“Sure it is, Agent.”_

_He dumbfounded. Why is this so obvious to everyone? He thought he'd been better, thought he'd done better at hiding for years. And to find out he hasn't been is startling. He wants to find a place to collect his thoughts, a place without prying eyes, but as he redirects Rogers is in front of him._

_He steels himself instead, hiding can wait._

_“So you want us to do the heavy lifting?”_

_Coulson nods along because that is what he wants. He wants to stop losing people, to themselves, to others, and this is how. This conclusion was clear to him the night before, he's at peace with it, ready._

-o0o-

It was over. Is. They are fine. She is fine. Every one of the managed to walk away from this fight, but sometimes he dreams they didn't. That he is alone, that he was too late, made the wrong choice, lead them into a trap, sacrificed too much.

He wakes up gasping those nights, clasping at his chest, and fighting off his blankets. Those are the nights he wishes she had agreed to stay in infirmary, so she could sleep, heal without his added burdens.

The sun rises higher on the horizon, the morning clouds burning off. Untucking his hands, Coulson stretches his arms along the back of the bench, and let's his head tilt back, tired eyes closed against the light. He would have preferred to stay in bed longer, but she's already been gone when he'd snapped out of his nightmare. And the absence renewed the stuttering in his chest.

After freeing himself and throwing the blankets to the floor, he stilled. Breathing as deep as he could, he told himself that she was fine, just wandering the base somewhere, completely fine. He'd seen it for himself when he'd flipped the lights out. But the need to move persisted.

He needed to get out, find her, reassure himself that his life hadn't been so monumentally changed. But he'd ended up here instead, his mind replaying the last couple days. 

-o0o-

_There's an irrational burst of anger that blooms in his chest as Giyera boldly approaches him, Melinda his shield._

_It's a sickening kind of anger that digs into his chest, and binds itself there, turning everything to grief and ash. Anger that Giyera thinks he can get away with this. That she is here, and caught, and hurt again. That once more he is left helpless in the face of his nightmares._

_But there's a part of him that understands. Knows Giyera is just playing his cards – the only ones he has left, that the prospect of the end makes people wild, and that that wildness leads them to make poor decisions. And Coulson can almost respect what he's doing, respect that he thought he could take her on without consequence, but it appears she got the better of him at some point during their scuffle._

 _He can_ almost _respect why he's trying. But this is exactly what he didn't want. This is exactly why he sent her away. This. Right here. And the pressure in his chest squeezes with every move Giyera makes. His stomach knotting tighter._

_He appraises May through the sight of his weapon, and is relieved, somewhat, by what he sees. She's limping, and a couple fingers are swollen. Her lip is busted, face bruised, but stone, and her eyes are clear. He can't spot anything that will be unrepairable, that makes this more urgent than it already is._

_The release in his chest is unexpected but welcomed, though he knows there are still too many unknowns for this kind of relief to be taking hold. It leads his concentration astray._

_His eyes shift from Melinda to Giyera to Fitz, who is slowly creeping up behind the pair. The engineer's hands are empty, and Coulson doesn't have a clue what he plans to do, but it corrals his attention back into place. He pulls his gaze not wanting to alert anyone to the other man's presence._

_He trusts Fitz, he reminds himself. Trusts whatever he is planning. He's capable, and Coulson trusts him with his life. With her life, and that is all that matters to him right now._

_Looking back, he goes to lower his gun – he doesn't know what he's thinking, it isn't helpful in this situation. A gut reaction he should've tried to control. Not that it would have really mattered, if Giyera wanted it he'd have taken it. But as he relaxes his arms to drop, the gun stays in place, and his heart hammers harder against his bubbling panic._

_She doesn't look surprised, and both his hands are back up, pulling, in the hopes of wrestling it out of Giyera's control. And it's stupid because he knows he can't. He can't. And he'll never be able to, but he continues to try as it repositions._

_What strikes him most is her face. As they stand there death looming overhead, when he doesn't think he'll be able to save her, her face is peaceful, calmly blank. Not a hint of ire, discomfort. Like she's ready for whatever outcome will claim them, accepting that if she and Hydra must end together they will. She'll see to it. But he can't accept that, won't. He knows she's not ready, doesn't truly want to leave them, she's just willing to make the hard choice. And she'll do it happily because she knows the rest of them will hesitate, try to find another way when there isn't one, and – he's always hated this about her. Her ability to think she is worth less than the rest of them because she believes she's broken, expendable. He hates it about her now as she stares at him, eyes so steady._

_He yanks harder, desperately trying to change something, anything._

_It all over before he can blink, before he can process what is happening._

_One shot. Two. And they're falling forward, her body trapped beneath Giyera's limp one. He watches, frozen in place. There's movement and sound, and it dully filters through his ears, but a third shot spurs him to action. His gun is on the floor, and he doesn't know where the sound came from, but they need to go._

_“May? Melinda?!” His belly twists with a fury and relief when she moves, trying to push Giyera off from an odd angle. How she's flipped herself over he doesn't know, but he feels a little nauseous at the conflicting emotions. There isn't a time he can remember relief this potent, and his hands tremble when he reaches to help._

_He kneels to help her up after rolling the unconscious man over. His eyes are wide and his hands hover just above, unsure if he should touch her. “Are you hurt? There's blood.”_

_“S'not mine,” she mutters sitting up, gaze on him, mouth tight._

_And he has so many questions to ask. How long had she been here? What had they done to her?Why hadn't anyone known she was missing?_

_She pushes herself up with a waver, and he grabs at her waist deciding any answers can wait until they back in the safety of their base._

_“The Quinjet's been compromised.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_She shakes his question off, and wobbles once more. “Doesn't matter.” Pushing away from him, he feels cold at the loss of her, but she squareing her shoulders, ready to press forward. “Gather the others. I'll find another way out of here before backup arrives.”_

_There's no point in questioning her orders, he'd have given the same ones, and he can't shake this nauseating feeling that he's missed something. His earpiece buzzes at the jumble of voices that ripple through at her voice._

_She's stalked off when he orders everyone back. Giyera's zip tied, and being hauled into the containment module as what he assumes was Malick's personal jet taxis to the end of the hanger. He just wants to get on the plane, and leave so he can reprimand his second, but rethinks his decision as the others file on. They can't try to rehabilitate Giyera if he dies._

_“We should at least make sure he's not gonna bleed out.”_

_“Bleed out, sir?” Fitz asks, tapping the computer screen. He stops for a moment to look at whatever Coulson is pointing at, and his shoulders fall. “That's not his. I used an ICER, two shots to be safe. He's gonna have a hell of a headache. It's this prototype I'very been-”_

_His face falls as he steps out. No– that means– she said– His inside coil, blood beating deafeningly against his eardrums. No, no, no, no – she's so... stupid. So is he for that matter. How could he have fallen for that? He hadn't even made it hard for her, just watched her walk off._

_“Maybe he just got it on him during a fight,” Fitz offers at the tension he sees building in his boss._

_Coulson shakes his head. No. No. “Send it off. Get to the plane.”_

_He starts back, rubbing at his face, hoping Fitz is right, but the further he walks the more something tells him it's not. Breaking into a run, his shoes slip as he grabs the railing to go up the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he ignores his team's looks, and sprints down the hall. Practically running into the door, he pulls the handle, finding it locked. Hysteria builds at the development, and he strikes the door._

_“May, open the door! Open the goddamn door, Melinda!” Each sentence is punctuated by a banging. He tries the handle again, rattles the door when he finds it's still locked._

_The hatch closes, the engines revving up. Their team is murmuring at the end of the hall, concern radiating off them, and he hits the door again, slumps against it, forehead resting on the wood._

_“Please open the door!” His voice is calmer, by a fraction, and he's colder, blood gone from his limbs, his heart a weight in his stomach. He needs in, needs to determine how bad this is, whether he needs to be this worried._

_They stagger as the plane begins rolling, and he knows they'll have to find somewhere to sit. She'll take off whether they're standing or not, injury is better than death._

_Back in the cabin, buckled in, he decides he hates her a little for this also. For being so stubborn. For scaring him like this. But someone had to know, someone somewhere within his organization knew she was here, coming here, missing. It doesn't take him long to figure out who it might have been if the remorse that spreads across Daisy's features is any indication. He'll have words with her later when he can think straight._

_Leg bouncing, he taps his knee until they're flying level. Then he's up, keeping the others in their seats with a wave of his hand. The anger from earlier fading the closer he gets, and the closer he gets the slower his feet seem to move. Trying the door, he finds it unlocked, and the coldness in his limbs travels to his core. He thought he'd have to beg. This isn't a good sign, and it's curling his insides._

_Door open, he watches her flip a switch and remove her headset before standing to face him. His eyes are stuck. She's pale, and sweaty, and trembling, and he doesn't know how he didn't notice before. Her hand is on the back of her seat, fingers digging into the fine leather, and he can't bring himself to move faster, move closer, to break this fragile spell. A sharp spike of alarm has lodged itself in him, and he is nailed to the floor._

_“Melinda–”_

_Her breath leaves her in shuddering waves. “I lied.”_

_The smell hits him all at once, harsh and putrid. Iron. Thick on the air, and heavy on his tongue. And the stain of red finally catches his eye, stark against the pale chair. It drips to the floor, and the anxiety nearly chokes him._

_Her eyelids flutter, as all the adrenaline that's been holding her up leaves, and she's going down. For a moment he's not sure if the shock will wear off enough for his arms to react. But it does, and they're on the floor. Together. She's partially on his lap, and he's afraid she's not going to open her eyes._

_It's a struggle, but she does, and he doesn't like what he sees._

_“Sorry.”_

_“You should have said something.” With one hand, he brushes her hair back, unhappy with the clamminess of her skin. The other searches blindly for the source of the bleeding, and the panic wells in his gut, crawling its way up his throat._

_He did this. Wasn't fast enough, didn't pay enough attention. It was his gun, his bullet. His hands on the weapon. And he's interrupted. His sight blurred, and May is watching his grief through hooded eyes._

_“DC, there's blood in the cabin,” Daisy reports, concern thick in her voice, eyes following the trail. There's no response, and it forces her attention up. Her reaction is immediate, and he is thankful that somebody's head is still firmly on their shoulders. “Oh, shit! Jemma!”_

_It feels like a blur after that. He remembers being pushed out of the way, May's eyes closing, her breath slow, the hopeless way he is helpless. Everything is crashing down, sounds merging together into a thunderous hum._

_Except then, Simmons is a miracle worker because May is bandaged, hooked up to oxygen, and up in the co-pilot's seat. Everyone's staring at him, he's missed something he's sure, but Daisy is saying talking about landing, and he doesn't know if she's gotten that far in her training. Neither of them had mentioned it._

_He shakes himself, she hasn't. Of course she hasn't. If she had they wouldn't have set the coordinates in the Quinjet and let the automated flight take over. No one was expecting them, watching, they hadn't needed any fancy flying._

_He can barely hear everyone's responses, but Daisy is offering to try, and he is ordering people to buckle up. The quip Daisy makes gets lost somewhere between her mouth and his ears, and he sees this isn't going to work as Melinda's head falls forward, and Skye – Daisy asks for the instructions to be repeated again._

_She's up a moment later, but he's already turning to Jemma._

_“I need something to keep her going until we land.”_

_Simmons' eyes widen, and she tries to get out of her seat to argue, forgetting she's buckled. She stays seated instead. “You can't, sir. She can't handle any kind of stimulants in her condition.”_

_“Worse case?” Hands on his hips, they are tacky. Why hadn't he wiped them off earlier?_

_She blinks owlishly. “Uh, increased heart rate which will exasperate blood loss, and will lead to her bleeding out right here.”_

_“Best?” She'll need something to focus on to keep her up, awake, functioning. She'll have to do this, he doesn't think she'll manage just giving directions. Daisy can be backup if things take a worse turn. He nods to himself. Yes, that will have to do._

_“She takes slightly longer to bleed out, and we are on the ground by than.” She looks around them quickly before unbuckling, and dragging him off into the hallway. “But, sir, this isn't looking good as it is. We'll need to hurry.”_

_Nodding, he retreats into the cockpit. Her eyes are drooping, but she's straight in her seat, and seems to have guessed what he wants as she grabs the yoke. He wipes his bloody hands on his jacket, he should have done that earlier, and leans over the back of her chair, putting his hands over hers. His face warms as she leans back on him, her cheek pressed against his._

_“All right. Done this a million times.” She nods, and breathes out. “Once more, okay? I'm just gonna help, follow your movements. Give them a little oomph.”_

_Everyone else clicks in, and he waits for her to make a move._

_They're small, minuscule muscle twitches, and he fears there'll be no power behind her effort, but is genuinely stunned when his assists isn't required until the end. He's missed something though, and Daisy is out of her seat, flipping switches, and they're descending._

_May shivers against him, and he swears he can hear her teeth chatter. The jolt as the plane lands and settles. Her grip loosens, and Daisy is back in her seat, correcting their minor swerve down the runway, and steers them to the platform to be lowered into the base._

_Then he's being shoved away again, and the loss of contact is abrupt and startling. He's aware of the stress in Simmons voice, but his brain isn't grasping any details, and everything blurs together around him._

-o0o-

He hasn't moved from his stretched position when he feels her sit beside him. Doesn't need to look to know it's her or imagine the grimace as she gingerly lowers herself. Who knew guilt was so corrosive?

“You have to stop blaming yourself, Phil. It wasn't your fault.”

He throws her comment off with a flippant wave of his hand as he sits up, and moves closer, arm wrapping around her shoulder. He doesn't think he's up for this conversation again. Hasn't slept enough for it. “Where were you this morning?”

She relaxes into him, head against his cheek, and he's thankful that she gives into his silent request. He can hear the grin in her voice as she answers.

“Simmons caught me trying to sneak into the gym.”

He smiles in response because it's just so like her to try. “You're supposed to take it easy.”

“I need to get back to work.”

She's looking at him, face stern. It's the same look she always has on when he knows for sure he's going to lose a disagreement. He tries nonetheless. “Mel-”

“I need something to do, I can't just sit around all day.”

“It's only been a couple of day. Give me at least a week, and I will personally walk you to the gym, and fend off Simmons if that is what you want. As long as you go easy.”

“That's what I want.”

He nods quietly as she goes back to resting her head on him, his fingers trailing up and down her arm as he lays his head on top of hers.

The birds twitter louder, fluttering around their feet, pecking at the ground. And just when he's sure she's fallen asleep, she shifts around, exhaling loudly from her nose.

“I also want you to stop blaming yourself. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I disobeyed orders, and was where I shouldn't have been.”

“That mean you regret it?”

Her head shakes slightly under his. “Nope.”

“Are you going to tell me who helped you?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It does. Someone blatantly disregarded orders, and endangered you.”

“I did that, no one else.”

Shrugging, he let's it go. “If you're sure.”

“I'm sure.”

“I'm pretty sure I already know which little flower it was anyway.”

“Phil-”

“Calm down, she's not in trouble. I think she learned her lesson. It was a rough night.”

She quiet, and he fears he's upset her. If he has, he'll apologize later, and changes the subject.

“You're tired.” He straightens in his seat, arm tightening around her. “How do you feel about a nap?”

Blinking slowly, she nestles in. “I wouldn't object to one.”

He laughs, expecting a little more fight, and stands. Helping her up, he releases her when she's stable. “That's how I know you've over done it. What happen to 'I'll sleep when I'm dead'?”

Rethreading her fingers through his, she leans her head on his shoulder, and starts them on their way back. “I got old.”


End file.
